“That the new manager?” Earl asked. Doris’s smile faded slightly. “Marcus Webb. Transferred in about six weeks ago.” “He any good?” She looked at Earl over the top of her glasses and lowered her voice. “He’s efficient. I’ll say that much.” Earl nodded. He understood what she wasn’t saying.
“I’d like to talk to him about a loan,” Earl said. Something shifted behind Doris’s eyes. She knew Earl’s accounts, all of them. She knew exactly how much money sat in the Perkins family trust because she’d watched Helen build it deposit by deposit for decades. She knew what a five-thousand-dollar loan request would look like to a man who only saw numbers on a screen.
“Earl,” she said carefully. “You sure about that?” “I’m sure.” She studied him for a moment. Then she picked up the phone and pressed a button. “Marcus, I’ve got a customer here who’d like to discuss a loan. Earl Perkins. He’s been with us over fifty years.” She hung up and nodded toward the office. “Go on in.”
Earl walked across the carpet. His boots left faint dust marks on the dark blue pile. He knocked once on the open door. Marcus Webb looked up from his laptop. He was younger than Earl expected. Thirty-three, thirty-four, maybe. He stood and shook Earl’s hand across the desk. Good grip. Quick smile.
“Mr. Perkins, have a seat. What can I do for you?” Earl lowered himself into the chair. It was one of those modern chairs with thin padding and chrome arms. He set his hands on his knees. “I need a loan,” Earl said. “Five thousand dollars.”
Marcus nodded and turned to his computer. Earl watched his eyes move across the screen. “Pulling up your account now,” Marcus said. He clicked a few times. His expression didn’t change, but his typing slowed. Earl knew what he was seeing. A checking account with fourteen dollars and thirty-seven cents, a savings account with eight hundred twelve dollars, no credit cards, no investment accounts under that profile, just the numbers of a man who looked exactly the way Earl looked right now.
Old overalls, worn boots, calloused hands, seventy-eight years of weather on his face. Marcus leaned back. “And what would the loan be for?” “Farm equipment. My combine needs a new header.” “I see.” Marcus folded his hands on the desk. “What collateral would you be offering?” “My word,” Earl said.
Marcus paused. He glanced at the screen again, cleared his throat. “Mr. Perkins, I appreciate you coming in, but based on what I’m seeing, your current balances don’t support a five-thousand-dollar unsecured loan. Your checking shows fourteen dollars. Your savings has just over eight hundred.” “That’s right.”
“And at your age, without a steady income source showing in our system.” Marcus straightened a pen on his desk. “I can’t approve this. The numbers just aren’t there.” He paused. “We do have a senior assistance program through the county. I could get you the paperwork for that, if you’d like.”
The room went quiet. Earl looked at Marcus for a long moment. Not with anger, not with hurt. He just looked at him the way a farmer looks at a fence that’s been set in the wrong spot. Not the fence’s fault, exactly. It just wasn’t where it should be.
“Thank you for your time,” Earl said. He put his hands on the armrests and pushed himself up. His right knee locked for a moment. Marcus stood, too. “Mr. Perkins, I really am sorry. If your situation changes—” “It won’t,” Earl said quietly. He walked out of the office. Marcus watched him go, already reaching for his next file.
Earl went to the teller counter. Doris was waiting. She’d been watching through the glass the entire time, and her jaw was tight. “How’d it go?” she asked, though she already knew. “About how you expected?” “Earl, it’s all right, Doris.” “It’s not all right.”
Earl leaned on the counter and lowered his voice. The bank was nearly empty. One other customer at the far desk filling out a deposit slip. “Doris, pull up my other account.” She looked at him. Her expression changed. Not surprised. She’d been waiting for this. “You sure?” she asked. “I’m sure.”